


The Price You Pay

by Illustrious_Author



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (There that's probably enough for now), (if it's not clear by now idk what I'm doing with these tags), Hurt/Comfort, Multi, My First Fanfic, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, POV Multiple, Rape/Non-con Elements, You Have Been Warned, also some language, because why not, by reading just about anything else, for I am a but a poor author, please read anyways tho, seriously you could do better, so it's probably terrible, who lives on kudos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 12,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26895037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illustrious_Author/pseuds/Illustrious_Author
Summary: What if Sherlock told John the truth of Reichenbach? What if Mary never came into the picture? What if John realized just how much he cares for Sherlock, and did something about it? What if they adopted a little girl, as bright as Sherlock was at her age, and lived happily in 221B for 11 years?What if one day, 17-year-old Allie is kidnapped by someone they all thought was dead?(This is my first fanfic, so please be nice. Constructive criticism is welcome, blatant hate is not. General disclaimers and all that)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome one and all to the demented product of a twisted mind. I'm not entirely sure where this is going, but hopefully somewhere interesting. Enjoy!

I woke to the sound of a voice I had heard only in recordings and in nightmares; a voice belonging to someone who should have been dead.

“Are we feeling quite comfortable, Allie dear?”

Moriarty.

I tried desperately to focus, but the fog of waking up remained; my senses, usually sharp as Sherlock’s, were dulled. I must be drugged, of course, or have been recently. Slowly, I took in my situation as best I could.

I was wrapped in a sheet and comforter, both well made, and lying on a bed. Four poster, by my line of sight. I shuddered at the implications of these facts, coupled with the realization I was wearing exactly nothing. My throat felt...odd, I couldn’t quite place it.

With growing horror, I realized there were some sort of metal shackles around my ankles and wrists, and a collar on my neck. Not connected to anything at the moment, but the threat behind them loomed in the darkest corners of my imagination.

Judging by the window in my line of sight--I had not yet moved--it was mid-morning.

There were two other people in the room besides me, going by the sound of breathing: one Moriarty, the other unknown. Both standing where I could not see them.

“I know you’re awake, silly.”

Bracing myself and holding the comforter around me, I turned and sat up. The room was truly ornate, and dominated by the king-sized four poster I was sitting on. Massive double doors leading out, three windows on what I guessed to be the east wall, massive wardrobes on either side of a delicately carve fireplace opposite, and a single door in the corner, most likely leading to the bathroom.

Undoubtedly nothing less than Moriarty’s personal quarters.

Uh-oh.

By the door stood Moriarty himself, and beside him a tall, muscled man. More than a random follower, obviously, but I couldn’t place him. Between the two, a camera on a tripod; off for now.

Deep breath. In, out. Don’t panic. Don’t imagine. Just breathe.

I opened my mouth to ask a question. Perhaps, “Why have you brought me here?” or “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” I really couldn’t say; in the shock that resulted from the lack of voice, it slipped my mind.

Looking quite pleased with himself as I sat there, gasping like a fish, still quite able to breathe but completely incapable of speech, Moriary spoke up in a sing-song tone.

“Oh, now, see, I didn’t really feel like listening to you talk or scream or what have you, so a lovely friend of mine suggested I have your vocal cords removed.” I froze. “Mostly reversible procedure, luckily, but for now, I’m afraid we must constrict ourselves to simple yes or no questions.”

That bastard.

“So, Allie, when I ask if you’re feeling quite comfortable, you…?”

I stared at him with the most vengeful look I could muster, and made no move, affirmative or otherwise. He frowned quite dramatically.

“I know you’re used to getting away with such antics, but around here, when I ask a question, people answer. I’ll give you one more chance. Are you feeling quite comfortable?”

I couldn’t back down now, only intensify my stare. No matter that I was scared for my life.

“What a shame. Well, Sebby, I tried. Your turn!”

The man standing next to him, Sebby, stalked silently towards me. It took every ounce of my will not to scramble away into some corner of the room. I couldn't afford to show weakness, and doing that would only delay what was now inevitable.

“Shall I turn on the camera?”

Shit.

The camera, I was certain, was there to display my plight to Sherlock and John. If Moriarty was even contemplating turning it on, either to record or live stream, this was going to be worse than I thought.

Finally the fear cut through the haze. Sebby, or most likely Sebastian, was almost to the bed. Moriary’s hands moved to the camera, and the red light turned on.

In. Out. In. Out.

I had to be strong. Couldn’t show my fear. If I was here for any reason, then it would be to manipulate or punish my adoptive parents. They would be panicking; I would have to endure, keep them as calm as possible. Stay as strong as possible. For Sherlock and John.

In. Out. In. Out.

Sebastian reached the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there's chapter one. Comments are welcome. Let me know if you spot any errors or inconsistencies. Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, in the little time since I posted chapter one, this already has a kudos. That's both unexpected and wonderful!
> 
> Here's chapter two. It's from John's point of view, and in present rather than past tense. Sorry if that throws you off a bit, I just felt like the present tense fits his character a bit more. Enjoy!

So this is hell.

Allie should have been home hours ago. It’s morning now, and she’s been missing since last night. Should have texted, should have called, should have responded. Should have anything. It was all I could do to keep Sherlock from panicking, utterly and completely, and I’m only just hanging on myself. Maybe she’s with friends. Maybe her phone died. Maybe she’s okay after all.

I know that these thoughts are empty, but they’re all that’s keeping me together.

I can’t bring myself to think about what might be happening, right now, at this very moment. Sherlock has so many enemies, too many to keep track of: people he’s put behind bars, people he’s insulted, friends and family of either group. Since meeting him, I’ve gained enemies too.

But it shouldn’t be her. All I can think is that if they wanted to hurt Sherlock, they would have taken me. They always have before. That thought is all that’s keeping me sane. Don’t think about it too hard. Don’t consider the idea they might want to hurt both of us.

There’s no evidence that she’s been taken anyway. Mycroft hasn’t found anything yet, which means this could go either way.

Sherlock’s gone silent. I don't know which is worse: the normally calm Sherlock nearly in hysterics or this. Just sitting there, entirely still, tense and almost trembling, but still. I’ve not been here for this before. On the occasions I’ve been kidnapped, I haven’t seen him until after, when everything’s decided one way or another.

Why the hell did we bring a kid into the equation?

Eleven years now. Eleven years of happiness. She’s nearly equal to Sherlock, Allie, and at least twice as book smart as me. I don’t mind. She has more tact than Sherlock, I made sure of that. Skipped most of her education when she could be bothered to make an effort. She's a smart girl, which is both encouraging and worrying in light of the current situation.

It was pure chance that we adopted her or anyone at all. Some sort of accident with her parents. Her unique nature created some interest, and she was brought to Mycroft’s attention. He thought the best place for her would be with us. Where else? Who else? So little six year old Allie joined Sherlock and I here at Baker Street.

Sherlock was utterly fascinated by and immediately loved the latest addition to our little crime-solving family. She was eager to learn, he was eager to teach. I kept her away from cases for a while, but eventually she started solving ones she read in the papers, and when she began asking to come with and see the crime scenes, who could refuse? We all cared for her; even Mycroft begrudgingly fell into the role of doting uncle.

A ding from Sherlock’s phone and mine.

Sherlock practically jumps out of his skin. I’ve never seen him this on edge. Clumsily, he extracts his phone from his pocket, as I snatch mine from the table. A picture of Allie, asleep, curled on her side as always. And a message.

What a pretty little face. Check your email. Computer, not phone.  
-JM

Not in my worst nightmares have I imagined this scenario.

Sherlock’s shaking now, reaching for the computer.

Opening it.

Locating his inbox.

Clicking on the email, addressed to him, Mycroft, Lestrade, and myself respectively.

It’s a live stream.

Allie, sitting on a bed, wide-eyed but determined, a tall blonde man advancing upon her.

So this is hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo...did I mess it all up? That's for you, dear reader, to decide. Please let me know what you think in the comments, or let me know if you spotted any errors. I may post another chapter by the end of the day, I may not. Who really knows?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. MAJOR heads up here. There's some decently graphic stuff in this chapter, please skip if this in any way triggers you or makes you uncomfortable. Nothing too terribly plot important happens here, and a summary of what does can be found in the notes at the end. All I'll say now is I'm very sorry for Allie. Poor girl. She'll probably be rescued eventually. You have been warned. Enjoy?

Faster than I could see, faster than I expected based on the slow pace of approach, Sebastian’s hand wrapped around my ankle and he dragged me toward him. I finally let myself react, kicking at him as best I could, clawing at his face and eyes when I could reach. At that point, there was no use; he ignored my struggles and attacks and picked me up like a sack of potatoes. When I tried to roll out of his arms, he only tightened his grip until I opened my mouth in a silent cry of pain. I went limp.

At the end of the bed, he reached down to the base of the left post and attached my right ankle cuff to a chain secured there. He repeated the process with my left foot and a chain to the right, so that I was stuck legs spread facing the head of the bed. My hands were pulled up and linked to a chain above me, looser than the other two, and he pushed my upper body forward until I was unbalanced and leaning over the mattress, entirely dependent on the chain holding my wrists. The cuffs dug into my skin, and I thought I felt the beginnings of cuts.

From my new position, I could see several more cameras, including one above the headboard, directly in front of me. Red lights blinked from all of them.

It was all I could do not to cry.

I heard Sebastian move almost silently to one of the wardrobes and pull open a drawer. Of course.

Heard him take something out and pad back over to me. I screwed my eyes shut and braced myself for whatever was about to happen.

Breathe.

In. Out.

I heard the whistle of some sort of whip only an instant before it struck.

And then all I felt was pain.

With each strike of some sort of flail, I was rocked forward. With each lash, the cuffs dug deeper into my wrists. My shoulder sockets ached. Blood dripped down my arms. Cuts opened along my lower back and rear. My throat ached with the urge to yell, to cry out, to make any noise at all, but I could only shape my mouth in a silent scream. It was better than biting my tongue off. The only sound was the smack of the flail upon flesh and the whistle as it came back around to do it again.

Tears streamed down my face and dripped onto the bed below me.

Still the whipping went on. I opened my eyes to reduce that sensory input of the flail only to find myself staring directly into a camera. I quickly closed them again.

My young mind palace, a tentative attempt at recreating the masterpiece of Sherlock’s, was no use between the pain and the last dredges of drugs. I still was able to retreat into my mind somewhat, though, to endure in a numb grey place.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but was no more than five minutes, it stopped.

I stayed there, in that grey place, as oblivious to the world as I could make myself. I was aware the strikes had halted, but the pain continued, coming in waves.

I could feel every drop of blood.

In my haze, I didn’t hear Moriarty approaching until he pulled me back up by my shoulder from where I was dangling. Pulled me flush against his chest. I didn’t have the strength to stand independently; I was almost glad for the support.

Almost, until I remembered exactly who this monster was.

I tried to pull away with my last dregs of strength, tried to stop the contact, but he just held me there up against him until I stopped.

He leaned his head forward until his lips were nearly on my ear, in a morbid imitation of a lover's, and he whispered almost tenderly.

“Are you feeling quite comfortable?”

What could I do?

I nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. I warned you. I feel bad for doing this but it happening is kinda important to the basis of the fic so I kinda had to. Please try not to be too mad at me.
> 
> Alright so here's a terrible summary, sorry I'm really bad at writing brief summations:  
> Allie is chained to the end of the bed and well, whipped for her technical disobedience (remember, the part where she wouldn't answer the question?) by Sebastian. It's bad. Like reaaaaaaaally bad. She kinda retreats into a grey area to cope with the pain. Reminder that presumably John, Sherlock, Mycroft, and Lestrade are watching this, live. Eventually, the torture ends and Moriarty gets her to answer the question. Well, gets her to nod.
> 
> I'm really appreciating the feedback I'm getting thus far. As usual, let me know if you spot any errors or inconsistencies. This is probably the last chapter I'm posting today, but who knows? I'm kinda on a roll.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand we're back to John and present tense. Oh joy. This chapter should be interesting, we'll see. I did some minor editing to the last chapter, nothing too important, but if you want to reread feel free. Enjoy!

I’m going to throw up.

I barely make it to the kitchen in time; that sink is closer than the toilet. Up comes my breakfast, a meagre affair, eaten whilst worrying about Allie. I close my eyes and fight the oncoming heaving as best I can. My entire being aches with sympathy for hers.

I swear I’ll kill Moriarty.

I don’t know how he’s back. Sherlock was so sure, all those years ago, after that scare with Eurus and the recordings. So certain. Simply more misdirection?

Either way, when he dies this time, I’m burning the body.

By all means, even if he did survive, he should have no resources, no backup. Three years of Sherlock dismantling his web. Three years where I only ever saw him every couple months, for a few minutes. His entire network can’t have been a ruse. It just can't have.

There it is, the feeling rising again. My breakfast has already made it’s reappearance, so we’re on to the mostly digested last night’s dinner and a whole lot of stomach acid. It burns my mouth and lingers. When I finally stop, I turn on the tap. Clumsily cup water in my hands to wash my face and rinse my mouth. Deep breaths. Time to help Sherlock.

When I get back to the couch, he’s still sitting. His eyes, glued to the screen, are shining, whether with fury or sorrow or both I can’t tell. My money’s on the last one. The rest of his face is blank; probably in an attempt to control the emotions so that he works more efficiently, maybe because of the shock. Gingerly, I sit beside him again, and join in watching the painful scene before us.

The blonde is done, now; he moves to the side, bloody cat o’ nine tails in hand. Now Moriarty steps forward; Sherlock, if possible, goes even more tense. Now he pulls Allie up; she tries to struggle out of his grasp but fails.

Now he whispers something in her ear, and she nods shakily.

Just like that he drops her; she doesn’t have the strength to stand. Allie, poor Allie, dangles awkwardly by her wrists, half way through the motion of falling. Through one of the camera angles, I can see the henchperson put away the flail, not bothering to clean it. When he rejoins Moriarty, the two exit the double doors.

Allie just hangs.

I close my eyes and try to breathe.

Sherlock makes a low groaning sound, a sound of despair, and my eyes snap back open. I glance at the screen, nothing new there, and turn to Sherlock. Still as a statue, barely even breathing. I gently lift his hand from where it’s resting on his lap, take it in mine. I trace small circles on the back of it, and he seems to relax slightly.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get her out of there. You’ll see.”

He slumps against me suddenly, head on my shoulder, shaking in mostly silent tears. I’m nearly in tears now too, holding onto him, rubbing his back. We sit like that a bit, just the two of us, ignoring for a moment the screen.

The door to the flat slams open, and I tense. I hadn’t heard anyone come up the stairs, but I was, to be fair, a little distracted. Over Sherlock’s shoulder I see Mycroft storm into the room, and Greg timidly enter behind him, face pale.

“Hey,” I say, my voice rough, and that's when the crying really hits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it. Chapter four. Poor...everyone. Except Moriarty and Sebastian. F*** them.
> 
> I've been kicking around the idea of a Moriarty POV chapter. Is that something you guys would want? Anybody? As usual, if you spot any errors or inconsistencies, please let me know. Thanks!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a chapter five. I'm not sure if anyone's reading this far. Who knows, really? Back to Allie, poor girl. It just keeps getting worse and worse, doesn't it? Well, it has to get better eventually, doesn't it? Enjoy!

I tried to stay awake as long as possible, but with the adrenaline and immediate threat gone, there was only so much I could do. Within minutes of Moriarty’s departure, I succumbed to the worst pain of my life and drifted into a hazy sort of semi-consciousness, filled with hallucinations and dreams.

I saw Sherlock and John. They stood and stared, looks of disgust on their faces. They began to fade into a cloud of mist. I tried to call out to them, but my voice was as gone here as in the real world.

With the mist came voices.

“Should have been more careful if you didn’t want this to happen.”

Moriarty emerged from the cloud, a leash in one hand, a whip in the other. His face was contorted in a silent, hideous laugh.

“Are you quite comfortable?”

He morphed into Sebastian, and cracked the whip at me.

“Should have fought back more.”

The faces and voices came faster now, melding into one another, a whirlwind of escape and imprisonment, everywhere pointed fingers and disappointed looks.

Greg. Mycroft. People I knew, people I didn’t. Classmates from my handful of years in school, laughing and jeering like they always had.

Moriarty.

I finally blacked out.

~~~

When I came to, I was in the bed again, tucked under the covers. I sat up the instant I remembered what was happening, and quickly regretted the fast movement. Black spots danced before my eyes.

Pain.

I sank back down onto my side, breathing heavily. It wouldn’t do to injure myself any further. Not at all. Breathe.

In. Out.

At least I was sure there was no one else in the room, even though the cameras were still on.

They must be so worried.

The light was dimmer now, the sunlight no longer coming directly through the windows. It was still day, that much was clear, but late afternoon or evening.

How long was I out?

I studied my wrists. Still cuffed, but somewhat cleaned and no longer bleeding. Judging by the state of the wounds and the rate of the healing, the cuts weren't even a day old yet. There’s my answer. Someone with medical experience had clearly tended to them, they had--

Wait.

I looked closer at my cuffs, certain I had to be wrong. Even Moriarty wouldn’t...

But he had.

That arse had them made around my wrists, with no release mechanism and no way to get them off without cutting them or breaking bones. I could still see some of the damage the connection process inflicted on my skin through the scabbing cuts, though I’m certain the welding was done with some sort of barrier between my wrist and the metal. Not enough, no, but the damage would have been far worse if there hadn’t.

Far, far worse.

As gently as I could, I maneuvered my ankle up to the point where I could feel the ring of metal. I still hissed in pain as my back, apparently bandaged but clearly not healed, stretched. Same thing there, same welded-on metal with two loops for chains or locks or what have you.

I felt around my neck and found that I had missed a rather crucial detail.

Connected to one of the loops was a sturdy chain.

My breath quickened, the collar seemed to draw tighter. Slow breaths, deep breaths, breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

That bastard.

It made sense, of course, in a twisted sort of way. Want to keep me locked up and largely unsupervised? Desperate enough, and I might just break my thumb, dislocate something, snap my bones and be free. 

With my neck, there was no such option.

I had been trapped earlier, but now it really sunk in. There would be no leaving unless someone came to get me, no escape unless a genius who fooled Sherlock for years slipped up.

I heard a toilet flush somewhere behind the door in the corner.

I froze.

There, the sound of a sink running, and a cheery melody being hummed.

Him.

When the door swung open, it was indeed Moriarty who waltzed out, dressed in some sort of silk pajamas.

No.

Hell no.

I wanted to move away, but the memory of the flail and the weight of the collar on my neck kept me in place.

While he walked the long way around the bed, smiling that eerie grin of his, I only lay there, tracking him with my eyes until he was out of my range of vision.

I held my breath as the blankets moved, hoping that he wasn’t doing what I knew he was.

Hoping until he reached me and wrapped me in his arms, pressed against my wounded back.

I would have groaned in pain, but I couldn’t, so I merely flinched and went rigid.

I lay there in disgust and agony, tired but even more determined now, until the light disappeared from the windows completely and Moriarty began to snore softly behind me.

I tried to stay awake as long as possible, but it wasn’t long before exhaustion overtook me and I fell into a restless sleep in my kidnapper’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah well. Apparently doesn't have to get better right this moment...
> 
> As per usual, just comment with anything wrong you've spotted. Thank you!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the break in uploads. I went on an unexpected trip over the weekend and it took a bit of effort to get back into the writing. Here's more from John. I hope this chapter isn't too bad (I don't know, feels a little disjointed to me, some of the tenses are weird). Enjoy!

We’ve reached the 24-hour mark, best as I can estimate, and neither Sherlock nor myself have slept in all that time. While I can’t vouch for Greg or Mycroft, I doubt they have, either.

Since they arrived some time before noon, Mycroft has barely stood still. His anger faltered for a second in the face of his brother weeping--I doubt he’s seen that many times--but he immediately began pacing like a caged animal, typing furiously into his phone and making calls that usually ended in some poor bloke on the other end getting yelled at. Greg sat on one of the arms of the couch, and while that can't possibly be comfortable, has barely moved. Sometimes, when Mycroft begins to yell, he makes as though to move to him, but seems to think better of it.

Sherlock eventually removed his head from my shoulder, face red and puffy, and has stared determinedly at the live feed on the computer in the hours since.

Around lunch, and once again around dinner, Mrs. Hudson came in to deliver a tray of biscuits and tea. Greg and I each ate a bit, but Sherlock and Mycroft flatly ignored the offering. I don’t think Mrs. Hudson really knows what’s going on, but she must have some idea; she worried over Allie with us last night. There’s only so many reasons we would all be here now, staring at a laptop. She must have some idea, though; she was uncharacteristically silent on both occasions.

The computer nearly died once. When I stood up to get the charging cable, Sherlock caught my wrist. Gently, I pried his fingers off, but when I came back he grabbed my hand in his and hasn’t yet let go.

There were a few moments of note. Not a half hour after Allie passed out, the blonde man reentered, accompanied by a man in a mask. Sherlock’s grip on my hand tightened considerably, and we all held our breath. Even Mycroft paused for a moment, eyes on the screen like the rest of us. We watched as the blonde man let her down, unhooking the chains, and lay Allie flat on her face on the bed. When the man in the mask only cleaned and bandaged her back and wrists, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. It stopped a moment later when the blonde attached the collar around Allie’s neck to a chain connected to the headboard.

When he did nothing else but cover her with blankets before leaving, it returned.

Some hours later, just before sunset, Moriarty walked into the room. The reactions from earlier repeated themselves in the flat, with more intensity if possible. When he stopped at the bed to run his fingers through Allie’s hair, the bones in my hand ached in Sherlock’s grasp. Moriarty stared at one of the cameras the whole time, eyes twinkling as if to say, “Isn’t this a fine game?”

When at last he waltzed over to the door in the corner and disappeared behind it, I took a breath.

My heart ached when Allie sat up suddenly, and lowered herself back down in apparent pain. When she felt the cuffs on her wrists and ankles and finally, the collar and chain. When suddenly, in a sound audible to even us, a toilet flushed behind the door and she stiffened.

When that maniac joined her in the massive bed, wrapped her in his arms possessively, and all she could do was lie still.

We watched as she fell asleep.

It’s been a half hour. As best as I can tell, Moriarty is done for the night.

“Right then.” Despite my best efforts, my voice cracks.

Sherlock flinches a bit at the sudden sound. It hurts to see him this way, it twists something deep in my chest. Allie has long been the surest way to his heart. My detective, usually so good at staying above it all, is scared.

So am I, but I will have to be the strong one for now.

Besides my concern for him, there’s a practical side to my worry. While I am certain he will do anything in his power to help Allie, I’m not sure he’ll be able to focus like he needs to. While Mycroft is also affected, I hope he’s better off than Sherlock; otherwise, we might not get her back.

My chest tightens at the thought.

I have to be the strong one, no matter how hard I want to go to pieces.

Deep breath.

“What do we know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, good to see that they're finally starting to plan. Who knows how this will go? Okay, maybe me, but that's a strong maybe. As usual, let me know if you find any issues. Thanks!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another. This is pretty short, sorry, but I just can't resist the opportunity for a dramatic chapter ending and...well, I suppose you have to read it for yourself. Shouldn't take long. Ah well, it is what it is (see what I did there? No? Never mind...). Enjoy!

When I woke up, I was cold, but not alone. There was someone sitting in the bed beside me. Eyes still closed, I snuggled against the person next to me for warmth.

“Getting comfy?”

I froze.

Damnit.

Moriarty.

I was already beginning to hate waking up. Those first few moments of blissful ignorance, followed by a swift sucker-punch of realization.

“Come on now, no reason to be skittish.”

An arm snaked down and wrapped itself around me, pulling me closer.

For a handful of minutes I lay there, staring at a fixed point on the fireplace as his hand rubbed my shoulder briefly before coming to rest in the tangled nest that was my hair, stroking my head as one does a dog or cat. The similarity, almost certainly deliberate, was not lost on me.

Finally I glanced at him, only to find him staring right at me.

I quickly looked away, looked back to the fireplace, but he grabbed my chin and turned my head towards him with painful force. I concentrated on the camera behind his head; now off, now on.

His fingers dug into my skin.

“Look at me, Allie.”

I closed my eyes and thought of the many places I'd rather be. Home. The cafe. A dumpster.

“Wouldn’t want me to invite Sebby in again, would you? Not so soon after last time?”

My eyes flew open on reflex, but I forced myself to stare at the bright red dot.

“Better. Now look. At. Me.”

God help me, I looked.

I barely dared breathe; I could see now in those black demon’s eyes a world of anger and of possessiveness and perhaps a tinge of sadness, all clouded by the slightest mist of boredom.

I always was better than Sherlock with emotions. As familiar as he was with their chemistry, it was I who could unravel the layers, could find the soul, could see what a person really was.

What my observations were telling me was that Moriarty was not nearly as emotionless as he seemed on the surface.

And that scared me.

It scared me because maybe, just maybe, he wasn't a psychopath or a sociopath or some unfeeling thing. Maybe he was more ordinary than he seemed. A genius, yes, but one with emotion and the skill to hide it.

And the fact that he could be like that and still do the things he did, still torture and kill and play with lives like pieces on a board scared me more than any lack of emotion ever could.

A grin spread across his face. My terror must have been clear as day to him.

“Now you see me.”

And I thought I did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: I have gone through and removed the chapter titles. As lovely as the first four were, I just kinda started not really being able to think of any good ones and rather than be inconsistent, figured I'd just remove them all. Sorry, I know this makes it more difficult to find a specific chapter.
> 
> I'd love to hear what you guys think about the direction I'm taking the characters. Too OOC? It's a fanfic and you don't care? Love it? Hate it? IDK, I'll take any feedback.
> 
> As usual, if there's anything wrong that you notice, please comment and let me know so I can fix it. This isn't beta read (clearly), so I like to think of you all as my beta readers. Thanks!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to 221B and the gang. There's a bit of deducing in this chapter, I'm not really sure how my formatting of that turned out or if any of the conclusions are really accurate, but who knows. Enjoy!

Sherlock shook me awake to the sight of movement on the screen.

We’d talked late into the night, or rather Mycroft did, once I got him started. Occasionally Sherlock would say something, usually under his breath, but as harsh as it sounds, he seemed slowed down by his attachment. Every so often, Mycroft would suggest an action and Greg would speak up, confirming his ability to do something or the other. I’m not sure how useful this was to Mycroft, considering his superior influence and likely knowledge of every asset at Greg’s disposal, but it seemed to help him feel like a useful part of the group, so Mycroft let him continue.

According to Mycroft, we know a great deal more than I would have supposed, but that’s hardly surprising.

The timing of the sunset in the footage showed the room was probably in London or the surrounding area. The expensive tastes of the room as well as the presence of Moriarty’s clothing in the wardrobes revealed the room to be his. This increased the likelihood of it being near if not in London, though a location on the outskirts was favored as the fireplace in the style present was highly unusual to be found on the upper floors of a building, and due to the lack of interference with the sunlight the room had to be either near the top of a tall building in the densely-packed central areas of London or on the lower floors of a building somewhere a bit more spread-out.

Usually I’m in awe of the deductive capabilities of the Holmes brothers, but for now I’m just thankful.

From there it gets a bit more complicated. The surest fact past a general probable range of location was the identity of the blond. Sebastian Moran, accomplished marksman, ex-army colonel. Until recently, a somewhat prominent figure in the London underworld. Apparent second to Moriarty.

Any other deductions or assumptions to be drawn from the video could more easily have been tampered with than the others, though Mycroft did caution than we could guarantee no truth when dealing with Moriarty. We can’t even bet on his making demands in exchange for her. Still, these conclusions gave us a place to start, with a narrowed search area and a relatively visible and well-known person to track down.

As little as I chipped in to the first segment of planning, I contributed to the next even less. It consisted mainly of Greg and Mycroft coordinating who to have search where, what sort of information to make public, and so on. Eventually I nodded off.

And was woken up by Sherlock.

Moriarty is moving, I can see; stretching and sitting up. He pulls his phone from under the covers, likely from his pocket. A bit of tapping with the screen held at such an angle it’s invisible to the cameras, and the view from the headboard disappears. Another tap and the quality of the videos lessens to some degree. He moves the phone to a much more manageable angle as far as typing is concerned, and now that we’re unable to read over his shoulder or see a reflection in his eyes or even watch his fingers with any accuracy, he types away. Probably conducting business; the underworld of London doesn’t wait because you’re tormenting your enemy by kidnapping his daughter.

There’s a bit of movement from Allie now; she snuggles up against Moriarty’s side. Just like she used to do with me sometimes when she was scared after an episode of Doctor Who or something else on TV.

A button is pressed and all the cameras are back and vivid, with sharp edges and bright colors.

Then Moriarty speaks and she realizes this is not quite 221B the morning after visions of weeping angels brought her downstairs in the middle of the night.

He reaches down to her and I have to resist the urge to yell, the need to scream at him to stop touching my daughter you bastard, because he can’t hear and even if he could I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

He pets her head and rubs behind her ears like some household pet, and I’m starting to feel sick again. He grabs her chin and tells her to look at him, look at his face, and she doesn’t want to but he brings up Sebastian and she does.

And she looks so scared.

There’s something else, another hushed sentence from Moriarty that I don’t quite catch.

Then the fucker grabs her head in both hands and kisses her.

Allie starts to thrash and pull away but he breaks the kiss and whispers something in her ear and this time I hear him despite the blood rushing through my head and the thumping sound in my ears.

“You’re mine now, but would you rather I let Sebby do this?”

I can see her hesitate.

“He’s not half as gentle as I am, I think you’ve learned that. A bit on the eager side, too, who knows what he’ll do once he’s had his fill of kisses?”

I can see the recognition in her eyes, the understanding of the implication, and the moment she gives in.

“Hmmm, I forgot you can't speak. How could you possibly show me your preference? I wouldn't want to misunderstand your decision.”

That manipulative arse.

And just like he wants, Allie kisses him, and he stares into one of the cameras the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, looks like the beginnings of a plan. I guess. Sorta.
> 
> I have a general idea of the direction this is going, but if you have any suggestions or anything you'd like to see just leave a comment.
> 
> As usual, if there's anything I messed up, please let me know. Thanks!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. New chapter. I'm entering a bit of an unknown here as I try to find a way from point A to point B, so bear with me here. I don't know, I think the writing quality is deteriorating slightly (a bit(okay probably a lot)). What do you guys think? If anyone even made it this far into the fic?
> 
> I don't know anymore.
> 
> Enjoy!

Moriarty practically devoured me, his mouth on mine, nipping at my lower lip hard enough to draw blood and slipping his tongue greedily into my mouth when I gasped in silent pain.

All I could do was sit there. I had made my decision. Manipulative, possessive lunatic over sadistic master torturer. I would probably regret it.

It’s not like I could have gotten away if I wanted to. One of Moriarty’s hands was pressing into my skull, the other gripping at the collar that wouldn’t let me get more than ten feet away from him. For the moment, I was at his mercy. I was finding myself at his mercy more often than I liked.

Finally, he came up for air, breath hot against my face. I kept my eyes closed. I didn't want to look at him, didn't want to look at the cameras. My mouth, I was certain, must be swollen; my face, red.

Instead of picturing myself, I called up mental images of strangling Moriarty. These almost brought a smile to my lips.

I heard the door open and before I had the chance to react in any defensive capacity, I could smell the food.

My voice may have been silenced, but my stomach was not. Moriarty actually chuckled when it growled. I’d been living moment to moment so far, but suddenly the gnawing of a lack of food and a general sense of dehydration set in. I lost no small amount of blood, so it was surprising I hadn’t suffered worse from the effects.

The scent of food was too much. I finally opened my eyes to see that Sebastian was the one carrying the tray, and I flinched reflexively before stopping myself. It was a little concerning, how quickly Moriarty was able to give me a negative association with this man. Undoubtedly he hoped to set up a positive one with himself at a later point, and was likely already laying the groundwork. Just one more thing to look out for.

On the tray there was piled a full english breakfast, complete with a steaming cup of tea. Also on the tray sat something akin to a smoothie, though the liquid was much thinner than typicaly. As he set the tray on Moriarty’s lap, unfolding the attached legs, Sebastian winked at me. I made my best effort at a defiant glare back.

“Thank you, Sebby. You can go now.” 

I almost immediately reached for the food. Certainly I couldn’t let Moriarty dictate even what I could eat and when to me. But Moriarty thought otherwise, it seemed, and snatched my wrist from the air.

“Ah-ah-ah, not so fast. I regret to inform you you are on a liquid based diet for now. You know, vocal cord removal and all that. The smoothie is for you.”

Of course.

“But before you drink that, it has been an awfully long time since someone’s fed me a meal.”

I should have refused. I should have dumped the tea in his lap. It would almost have been worth it, just to see his face. He’d be surprised, of course, behind the pain. He wouldn’t expect me to, not with the unsaid threat of being at Sebastian’s mercy hanging in the air.

So I fed him his breakfast, humiliatingly, a bit at a time, while he sat and stared at me with the look of a predator. He didn’t speak until the plate was nearly empty, only smacking his lips exaggeratedly and occasionally making sounds I fought not to shudder at.

“That should be enough. I do believe I’m quite full.”

Grateful, I dropped the silverware onto the plate and picked up the smoothie, starting in small sips. To swallow felt odd. Though I was a bit wary about eating anything given to me by Moriarty, what choice did I have?

It was becoming a dangerous pattern, this having no choice. Of course I don’t, that’s how this works, but it still shook me. As a general rule, I loathe being at the mercy of others. I have ever since--

No. I couldn't let myself think of that. Not on top of everything else going on.

Somewhat lost in my thoughts, I must have let my guard slip, must have stopped paying attention.

I cursed my inattentiveness when I felt the swipe of an alcohol wipe and the pinch of a needle in my arm, put there by Moriarty. I’m not sure where he got it from. It disappeared again before I could really get a good look at what it was.

Panic must have shown on my face because all of the sudden the smothie wasn't in my hand anymore and Moriarty was holding me to him, whispering in my ear and giving me what was surely meant to be a comforting hug.

“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you, just a little injection to help you out, don’t worry about it.”

I wasn’t sure why he was hugging me at first, why he kept his voice unusually soft and sweet, but then it dawned on me that it was probably a tactic to reinforce positive feelings toward him. Of course he would try something like that.

My eyelids began to grow heavy. Realizing I had been drugged sent a jolt of energy through me, and I almost broke free of his arms. Almost.

“Shhhhh, now, I’ve got you, I’ve got you…”

I could see him smiling softly as my world faded to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will probably pick up a bit from this point forward, as a general rule.
> 
> When looking at the (potential) inaccuracies, keep in mind all the knowledge I have comes from a brief internet search and is therefore far from comprehensive. That being said, if you have a correction to make, feel free to drop it in the comments. Even typos or tense errors. Thanks!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Guess who's back?
> 
> Sorry, that was a longer-than-intended break in uploading chapters. I'm trying to be more consistent (I actually have the next chapter pretty much written, probably gonna put it up tomorrow, it's a bit longer), but sometimes life just...lifes.
> 
> Anyways we're back with John and the gang at 221B. So yeah. Enjoy!

Moriarty likes to talk.

For the last three days, it’s almost all he’s done. He and Allie wake up, breakfast arrives, he drugs her--she’s stopped trying to avoid it, after so many failed attempts--and he talks until lunch. He’ll disappear for a few hours after eating, likely attending meetings, and leave Allie asleep and alone and looking so small curled up in that oversized bed.

Then he’ll come back and talk some more.

It’s mostly taunts directed at us. How Sherlock is just too sentimental to save her, how Mycroft let someone slip past his defenses, how Greg--who’s been the doting uncle almost as often as Mycroft--can’t do anything to help.

How I let her go. How it’s my fault.

Still no progress on finding her. London's a big city.

Occasionally, he’ll throw in something new. Change it up a bit. We were all horrified--horrified doesn't cover it really--after Moriarty spent a solid hour describing filthy things he could let his men do to Allie. In graphic detail. I tried to turn the volume off as soon as it was clear what he was doing, but Sherlock stopped me with a pained expression. I understood, of course. We had to listen, had to pay attention for any slip up that could lead us to Allie.

I almost turned it off anyways.

But whatever he did, sitting there, stroking Allie like a cat, whatever he said, it always circled back around to how it was our fault.

In the few moments Allie was awake, in the mornings and evenings, he spun a different sort of tale.

Oh, he still hinted at our guilt. Still tried to plant seeds of resentment. Still whispered, “Surely, with all their resources, if they were really trying they could have gotten you back by now.”

But more often, he planted the seeds of self-doubt. Of self-hate.

“I would have left you alone, you know. You just had such a...reputation.”

“You only had to be a little more careful, and you would never have been in the right place to take you.”

“You should have known your daddies had enemies. Why weren't you more cautious?”

Allie, poor Allie, strong Allie, winced a little each time, sagged a little more.

She tried not to believe him. He was just manipulating her.

But once the ideas were there, you could see them take root. See them grow.

It’s been three days of this now. And this morning, when she woke up, Allie looked defeated.

Even Moriarty saw it, I’m sure, because he seemed twice as cheerful at breakfast.

But now he’s done something curious.

After he injected her with whatever drug he uses, he unlocked her collar from the chain. Didn’t remove the lock, no; left it there, as though it was still connecting the two. She would have to check it to tell.

He looked at a camera and winked.

And then he talked, like everything was normal.

But when he left after lunch, he didn’t return.

Which is odd, seeing how much he likes to talk.

But now, as Allie finally begins to move, as twilight descends, I figure out what I’m certain the Holmes brothers have deduced, but failed to voice.

It’s a trap. It has to be.

But Allie, poor, drugged, disoriented Allie, won’t know until it’s too late.

And all we can do is watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for some MAJOR EVENTS next chapter. Yay! (Yay?)
> 
> Anyways, hope you liked it. I'm not sure if anyone's still reading at this point but who cares? Actually I do. I very much do.
> 
> As usual, if you noticed something...off, don't hesitate to leave a comment. Or just leave your thoughts. Or just let me know that you exist. IDK, I'm kinda desperate for feedback of any sort at this point...pathetic, right? I do appreciate those kudoses (what's the plural of kudos?) though, more than I deserve, that's for sure.
> 
> Sorry, that kinda went on for a bit. See you next chapter!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm uploading again, as promised, which is probably an anomaly. I guess technically I'm a day late (20 minutes past midnight in my time zone) but y'know, close enough.
> 
> Back with Allie. I wonder what Moriarty's up to now? Enjoy!

I would have thought it a miracle, if I believed in such things.

The collar was unlocked.

Oh yes, it was suspicious. Why on earth would Moriarty leave it like that? But I pushed those thoughts away. Who knows what went on while I was asleep? Who cares that he isn’t here, like he always is? He has to consult with his clients sometimes, after all.

And even if it was a setup, did I really have a choice? Could I, without hating myself, without wondering every moment until I was rescued if I could have avoided it all, pass up this chance?

I knew I couldn’t.

If this was a trap, it was well set.

I had waited long enough for them to come and get me. I knew, of course, they must be trying, even though Moriarty told me otherwise. But I’d waited and waited and now there was my chance to get out. To escape. To do it myself.

I had to be careful, though. The cameras.

When carefully looked at them out of the corner of my eye, and I saw the lights were off, I knew it had to be a setup. Maybe they were on, but the red lights were out. Sounds like something Moriarty would do. Let me know that someone was watching when it was convenient, making me think that no one was when it suited his needs.

But still, I had no choice.

I removed the hook of the padlock from the loop in my collar. When I tried to stand up, it was on weak legs. Walking to the bathroom had been no issue with Moriarty on hand; now I was alone.

I hoped.

After pausing to adjust, I moved towards the wardrobes. I’d be damned if I was going to escape naked. If I got out, when I got out, I had to be wearing something.

Drawers in the one on the left held objects, mostly. The flail from that first morning. Other things I didn’t want to look at. A box of matches in an apparent junk drawer. And valuables, of course; I grabbed an expensive watch. Who knew where in the world I was? Certainly not me, not yet. If I had to, I could find a pawn shop.

The one on the right was full of clothes. Suits, perfectly tailored.

I thought about the matches, and the fireplace.

After I buttoned on a well-made dress shirt--ruining the sleeves with my cuffs in the process, trying not to wince when it rubbed at all my sore spots--and slipped into a pair of slacks, I began carrying as much of the clothing to the fireplace as possible. Maybe it was a waste of time, but I had to do something, anything to get back at him in even the smallest way.

I studied my work. Pulled a coat and pair of socks from the pile for good measure. Then I retrieved the matches and lit the whole thing up.

It took a moment to catch, but once the flames started, they couldn’t be stopped. As smoke started to drift to the ceiling, I realized I didn’t open the flue. As I looked at the intricate moldings, I realized I didn’t care.

On went the socks and a pair of slightly-too-big dress shoes. As I pulled on the coat, I moved to the window. Looked out.

And saw the distinctive skyline of London on the not-so-distant horizon, sparkling in the sunset.

Good. I should be able to catch a cab home, probably with the watch itself.

Below me I could see the entrance to the building, just a story down.

The smoke was getting lower now. I knew I didn't have much time before it reached me and made things more difficult or someone showed up. Still, I couldn’t resist flipping the bird at the cameras one last time before leaving the room.

The door was unlocked, of course. I stepped out into a long, carpeted hallway. 

Right. Towards the entrance, then.

It only took me a few minutes to find the entrance, or, rather, exit. In all that time, I saw no one, only the beautiful, empty house.

I’d only walked a few blocks before spotting an empty cab. I couldn’t believe my luck at encountering no one, couldn’t believe myself safe, till the car was speeding away. I had to write down the address for the cabbie. When he pulled up to 221 Baker Street, I handed him the watch--studded with diamonds, upon a second glance--and got out without a word.

They were waiting for me there, on the doorstep.

John and Sherlock and Mycroft and Greg. My family. They seemed cautious. John and Greg as though they couldn’t believe their eyes. Mycroft as though I was something to be wary of.

And Sherlock as if I were an illusion, as if I would disappear at the slightest provocation.

I had done it. I had escaped.

I only made it halfway to them before I collapsed with a silent sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, as much as it pains me to say it, you're about as rid of me as Allie is of Moriarty. That is to say, don't exactly expect clear skies from here on out.
> 
> Sorry. What kind of a fanfic author would I be if I didn't drag this out as long as possible to cause maximum pain the these lovely characters I've borrowed?
> 
> As per the usual, please please PLEASE comment if you see any issues so I can fix them. Not beta'd, not britpicked, so...I a verrrrry prone to mistakes.
> 
> I'll be back soon-ish with the next chapter. Until next time!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And look, once again I'm consistent. That's odd.
> 
> The writing for this chapter feels a bit sub-par to me personally, but as I'm not sure how to fix it we'll just say it's because John is feeling a bit overwhelmed at the moment. Yeah, that works.
> 
> All may not be as it seems in this chapter. That is all.
> 
> Enjoy!

She’s back.

Allie is finally back.

When she stepped out of that cab, even though I knew it would be her, even though I had watched in silence as she escaped, watched her progress through the busy streets of London, it was surreal to see her there. I guess it wasn’t a trap after all, but it sure as hell still doesn’t make any sense.

No one moved until she hit the cement. That, at least, finally pulled from my dazed stupor into the reality of the situation.

My daughter, still fighting the effects of near-constant drugging and bearing the scars of the captivity from which she had just escaped, my Allie, was on the ground.

I was at her side in a second.

With frantic hands, I pulled her to me. She flinched, but only reflexively, I thought. She seemed disgusted with herself, underneath the tears streaming down her face.

Oh, Allie. 

I wrapped her in a hug. Then Greg was there, awkwardly patting Allie’s back, then Mycroft, making another call.

Sherlock was still stuck in place, looking for all the world like a lost little boy. Still is now.

He only moves when a car pulls up, only following the rest of us into the back seat. One of Mycroft’s cars. He sits on the other side of Allie from me, still as a statue, not moving to comfort her or speak to her or even touch her.

Anthea drives as quickly as possible to the A&E at the Royal London Hospital, where Allie is ushered away and we are greeted by a pair of officers wanting to take a statement. Greg’s doing, most likely.

Even though I know they’re only checking Allie for wounds and other issues, now that she’s no longer present, I struggle to catch my breath. I see Sherlock looking like he's having the same sort of problem. I know I have to help him. Have to be the strong one.

Christ, why does it have to be me?

I plop down in a chair next to him in the waiting space. Take his hand in mine, rub slow, calming circles on the back of it. We sit like that for what seems like hours. I never stop, he never relaxes. 

Finally, a doctor approaches, and is intercepted by Mycroft. They argue in harsh whispers, until it is clear Mycroft has won. You should never underestimate the power of a minor position in the British government.

Mycroft walks over.

“She’s fine. Asleep, but fine. We can see her now.”

The four of us walk back through identical hallways, following the doctor Mycroft threatened or bribed or what have you. To a room likely identical to countless others, save for its occupant.

Allie.

She looks so young, asleep. She is young. But her face is relaxed, and she seems calm.

I doubt she’ll be like that awake for some time.

She’s plugged in to an array of machines at the moment, some beeping, working noisily away.

I can still hear her breathing beneath all the sound, and it is the sweetest sound I have ever heard.

Mycroft consults the doctor again, in softer tones, then turns to inform us of what we just overheard.

“They’re running some tests to determine precisely what drugs she was given, but they seem to be having no lasting effect. Her back was taken care of quite well, though it will likely scar, and-”

Something is wrong with this picture.

“Why does she still have that collar on?” I move closer to the bed, concerned. She’s in a hospital gown, now, for which I am glad. Better than Moriarty’s clothes. But by the time Mycroft finds the right words, with an uncharacteristic pause, I know what he’ll say. Even though he didn’t discuss it with the doctor.

“They don’t come off. Not the collar, the cuffs, nothing. Fit right onto her, and welded shut.”

I don’t know if that’s what he says, or what I’m thinking, but I do know the next part comes from him.

“They don’t have the proper facilities to remove them. They can perform surgery, but it would be more effective and safe to cut the metal, and the collar cannot be removed surgically. They will attempt to refer us to the proper people,” with that he cast a meaningful look of disdain at the doctor, “but it is likely I can secure such services myself.”

Allie is back, but she’s still not free.

Not yet.

And she won’t be free when that collar is off, either.

She won’t be free until Moriarty is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still. Not. Over.
> 
> Next chapter things will pick up a bit again. If you're really trying, I bet you can guess where this is going. If you're really trying, I bet you could guess the whole plot. It's really not all that complicated, to be honest. I don't know why you're still here.
> 
> Comment with any issues, please and thank. Have a nice...day? Night? Year (ha)? Who knows?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allie. Poor, poor, Allie...
> 
> Well, you should probably just read it.
> 
> Enjoy!

They kept me in the hospital for three days.

They would have kept me longer, but they had run all the tests and fixed as much as possible. After that, there wasn’t much they could do when the British government, a detective inspector, and a doctor wanted me elsewhere.

It felt good to finally be home, but it felt...different. It was the same, physically, but I wasn’t. Sherlock wasn’t. John wasn’t. Even Mrs. Hudson wasn’t. She hadn’t seen the things the others did. But she had seen enough. Had seen the metal around my wrists and neck and ankles. She talked quietly around me, spoke in soft tones typically reserved for the bedside of the dying.

I was grateful she was trying.

John was gentler, too, like I might break. He was there when I cried; comforted me as I tried to scream, still silent. No surgery for a month and a half yet.

I would pass into full legal adulthood before I could speak a word.

Sherlock was the most changed. More than me, even. He was haunted, it seemed. By the fact he was the reason I was kidnapped, by the fact he hadn’t solved it, by the fact he was so easily at his enemy’s mercy with me as leverage. He was as silent as I. We would often sit together in a room, not communicating, only appreciating each other's presence.

Weeks passed like this.

With the help of a pen and paper and a few maps, I confirmed for Mycroft the location I had been kept at. When raided, it was found empty of people and traces of Moriarty’s whereabouts.

I lived in fear.

Most of the time, I felt safe enough in Baker Street. The hospital was where I felt most vulnerable. For weeks after I was discharged, I didn’t leave the flat.

I barely left my room.

Slowly, things got better. I communicated more frequently. My back truly began to heal. The others started to return to normal, too. Mrs. Hudson was first, of course, back to tales of her husband we’d all heard a thousand times. Back to bustling around and cleaning and making tea and reminding everyone that she was not, in fact, their housekeeper. Life seemed to return to Greg next. His face didn’t tense at the sight of me like it did at first. The pity and regret were only traces in his eyes. Mycroft tried so hard to cover his changes that it was difficult to tell when he was back, but he was. More relaxed. More comfortable. More in command.

They were all in and out of the flat constantly, checking in, saying hello, but there was hardly a moment where I was without Sherlock or John. 

So the more permanent changes in them were obvious.

John hovered less and less, but stayed protective, stayed in charge and in control. He came away from it compensating for Sherlock.

It seemed he would always be quiet.

Where before there was hardly a dull moment with him, a moment without thousand-word-a-minute deductions, now there was barely a word an hour. But it was progress from the absolute silence of those early days, so there was hope yet.

It was Dr. Richmond that suggested we go out for my birthday.

By we, I mean Sherlock and John and Mycroft and Greg and I. The doctor was the one who oversaw the major developments in the early stages of my hospital check-in, and the one the hospital negotiated would check in regularly, in exchange for me going home.

It was during one of these check-ins he suggested it.

“Allie, I see from your paperwork that you’ll be eighteen this Friday. Correct?”

I nodded. We were sitting in the living room, he awkwardly in the client's chair, and I even more so on the sofa.

“Why don’t you take the opportunity to get out of the flat? I know I’m only aware of some of the details leading up to you requiring a hospital visit, and I'm no psychiatrist, but I know it can't be good for you to stay in here forever.”

I hesitated.

“Take it as an opportunity to do something normal. To not let this take over your life. What would you have done if things were different?”

I reached for the pen and paper, but he stopped me.

“Rhetorical. I don’t need to know. It’s just a suggestion, and if you really were concerned about your safety, I’m sure Mr. Occupies-A-Minor-Position can do something about that.”

I smiled. It was a dreadful attempt at humor, really, but the reference to Mycroft’s practical tag line was unmistakable.

“Just think about it. As your doctor, I would recommend stretching your legs every once in a while.”

“As her other doctor and father, I would recommend saying goodbye because your time here is up.”

John, of course. He didn't like the idea of the hospital looking over his shoulder, or anyone else for that matter. Still, that was the end of of the check-in that day.

It was because of that suggestion, that idea, that on my birthday we all went out for drinks. I liked the thought of doing something normal. Mycroft provided the security, of course, for the five of us to go to a nearby pub and celebrate a bit.

Not that all the security in the world would have helped, in the end.

It was almost instant.

One moment, I was starting my night off with a glass of water, ordinary enough, a habit I'd picked up to reduce any effects of alcohol. Not that I’m a regular drinker. We were getting plenty of second glances, particularly me with my collar, still obvious despite the jacket.

The next, there was a flash and a bang and I was on the ground.

I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. My eyes burned and my head rang. I could feel the confusion of the people around me, the others on the floor that must have been my family.

I could feel myself being hauled up. No way I could resist. I was half-carried, half-dragged out the back, shoved rudely into a vehicle, still stunned and dizzy.

I didn't want to see who was there with me. As long as I didn't know, I could hang on to hope.

When my head finally began to clear, I tried to sit up, holding onto the door against the swaying of the moving car. As I did, I heard a low growl of disapproval.

At last I looked and found the faces I already knew I would.

Moran.

And Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well. Still not over.
> 
> Buckle your seat belts, folks. Did you think I would just forget about some of those tags?
> 
> As per usual, comments of any sort are welcomed.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooooooooooo...
> 
> I owe you a chapter.
> 
> Sorry I haven't uploaded the last few days, life's been a little weird lately, and is on course to get weirder...so I'll probably be inconsistent for a bit here, but ah well.
> 
> Enjoy!

Moriarty has her again, and it’s our fault.

It’s our bloody fault.

It’s taken us minutes to recover, I don't know how many, but what I do know is Allie is gone and getting further and further away with every passing second.

Mycroft is already on the phone, probably trying to lock down all of England, and Greg is on his, too, probably doing the same. But Sherlock, sitting against the bar counter, knees drawn up to his chest and tears leaking from his eyes as he mutters the most words he’s spoken this month, has undoubtedly come to the same conclusion as I.

It won’t matter.

Our phones all buzz with the sound of a text and in a split second, Mycroft and Greg hang up. We all know who it is, all suspect what it might be, who it might be from.

How nice of you to give me a present! Though it is Allie’s birthday, not mine. I guess I’ll just have to get her a gift...

-JM

And of course, there’s a picture.

It’s the back of a car, what kind, I’m not sure, but Mycroft and Sherlock can probably tell. It’s Allie, all right, tears in her eyes, shielding herself with her arms as Moran reaches toward her. 

When I look up, Mycroft is pale. Greg’s hand is clenched in a fist. And Sherlock--

Sherlock is wild.

Funnily enough, this might have been just what he needed to break out of the shell of silence he’s been wrapped in until now. I don’t know if that’s a good thing. He has a glint in his eye, like he might strangle Moriarty with his bare hands, if given the chance. Might, for old times’ sake, drop him off the nearest building. He’s crazed, really. I haven’t seen him look this way since-well, best not to think about that now all times.

Somebody is going to die.

He’s typing furiously into his phone, finding this or sending that, when Mycroft gingerly places a hand on his shoulder. He’s seen this look, too, knows that this could work in the long run, could be harnessed, but if he has any common sense, he’s just as worried about the short term as I am.

Sherlock freezes at the touch and gives Mycroft a withering look. Mycroft, to his credit, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shy away, but keeps on going.

“Sherlock. I know you want to help Allie, but-”

“Shut. Up.” A slight look of surprise from Mycroft, but he masks it well.

“I merely wished to-”

“No. You don’t get to suggest or comment or help. You did this. This is your fault.”

Mycroft recoils slightly, looking offended and almost, if I didn't know better, ashamed.

“Your protection. Your people. Your security. And now she’s gone. If you hadn’t told her that she‘d be safe, she would never have left the flat!” His voice is rising now, each word tinged with the hiss of accusation.

“If it weren't for you, she would be safe!” And just like that, Sherlock’s voice cracks, the rising wave of anger headed off by one of sadness and loss. His next words are almost a whisper.

“She would be safe.”

Sherlock is right, in a way. We are all the reason she’s gone, he must know that. Mycroft the backup, Greg the bodyguard, Sherlock the security camera, and me, the protective father who let his guard down for just one semi-normal night. He’s right, because if we hadn’t agreed, if we hadn’t done what the doctor suggested--

“The doctor.” The words leave my mouth before the idea is fully formed. “What was his name?”

“The doctor, of course.” Mycroft realizes where I’m going with this train of thought before I do, and Sherlock picks it up just behind him. But it’s Greg who supplies the name.

“Richmond, I think.” And he’s on the scent too. We’re all thinking the same thing, for once, the geniuses and the goldfish, I think I once heard Sherlock say.

“If we can track him down-”

“He must have links-”

“If he isn’t dead-”

“And perhaps even if he is-”

“He can lead us back to Moriarty.”

And just like that, we’re back in the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can they save Allie? Who knows! But they can sure try.
> 
> As per the usual, drop a comment if you see something wrong, something you like, something you don't like, etcetera, etcetera. It's all welcome here.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Please don't kill me!
> 
> That is all!
> 
> Enjoy!

After being relieved of all clothing in transport, the cool night air stung my skin and made my eyes water. I was dragged again, from the car to a jet, stumbling and taking every opportunity to delay. I knew once I was on that jet, it was likely I’d never come back.

But predictably enough, Moran quickly tired of the games, and with a grunt lifted me from the ground and over his shoulder. Moriarty remained uncharacteristically silent.

Soon we were on the jet. Its interior was plush, reflecting Moriarty’s expensive tastes. More of a living room than a cabin. The bed near the back did not bode well for me. Then again, nothing boded well for me in the hands of Moriarty.

Moran half-dropped, half-shoved me onto the floor, then turned and hit a button that retracted the stairs and closed the door.

Goodbye, England. Goodbye, Sherlock. Goodbye, John.

Goodbye, life.

I had to make a decision.

I measured my chances, lying there on the ground, carpet pressing into my skin, Moriarty standing over me and Moran no doubt readying the jet for takeoff. There was still a hope that, in time, someone would be able to rescue me. Undoubtedly, Moriarty would keep me alive to taunt and debilitate Sherlock and John and, in some capacity, Mycroft and Greg. Perhaps use me as bait, more likely livestream the torture of the day. Maybe, if I waited long enough, he would slip up, or I would find a way to escape, or they would track him down. But if he had hidden his survival from Sherlock all of these years, how long would I have to wait?

Did I really want to spend the next twenty years as a mute plaything for a madman? Really want the world to be vulnerable to the very same because the few people who stood a chance of stopping him didn’t want me to get hurt?

No, I didn’t.

In Moriarty’s hands, I was as good as dead. Why drag it out at the cost of a city, a nation, the world? At the cost of my family?

Goodbye, Sherlock. Goodbye, John.

This is for you.

All of this calculating only took a few seconds. As soon as Moriarty moved forward, his step full of confidence, his mouth opening for some witty remark, I made my move.

I twisted on the floor, grabbed his ankle, pulled him down with me. A blow to the head was all I had time for. Disorient him for a minute. Keep him quiet.

If I killed him, I would miss my chance. Besides, I knew Sherlock would do it for me after what was going to happen next.

The jet was outfitted with all the nicest luxury money could buy. Not the original interior, likely stripped and redesigned, with a bed stretching from one side of the cabin to the other in the back and a mini-bar towards the front. All pleasure, no business; unlike Moriarty, but it worked for me.

The bar was my chance. I didn’t have long until Moran realized something was wrong. I grabbed a bottle from behind the counter, smashed it open. That was loud. I had maybe ten seconds before someone stopped me; it had to be enough.

I picked up the sharpest piece I saw and sliced my wrists just below the shackles Moriarty had welded onto me.

Goodbye.

Please forgive me.

It was then that Moran arrived.

To his credit, he assessed the situation in only a few seconds. Me bleeding myself out, his boss lying on the floor. I tried to get as far away from him as possible, but I was already weakening from the blood loss, placebo or real.

Unfortunately for my brilliant plan, he decided Moriarty would have to wait.

I scratched at him as he came closer, aimed for his eyes and face, but he caught my forearms in one hand and reached behind the bar for something. A needle.

When my world faded, I wasn’t sure if it meant I was living or dying, or which I preferred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry...
> 
> Guess you'll just have to read more to find out what happens...
> 
> As per usual, drop a comment if you have anything to say, correct, add, yell at me for, etc. I received a very interesting comment on the last chapter (interesting in a good way) and let me tell you, the feedback is definitely appreciated. Thanks!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Checks my own pulse* I'm....alive?
> 
> Well to be honest I'm not sure who's still reading this. Good news? No one to murder me for my sins against these poor characters. Bad news? No one is telling me how much it sucks so I'm not sure how to improve.
> 
> If somehow you ARE still reading, then thank you, have another (short, sorry about that) chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!

The livestream is finally back.

We’re at 221B, planning our next steps, being more strategic this time, when the email arrives. Sherlock whispers “Automatic,” but beyond that, all conversation grinds to a halt as we turn our attention to the screen.

Oh Allie, where are you now?

The sight of a plane’s interior makes my blood run cold. It makes sense, yes, in fact it was expected, but this just got a whole lot harder. Nobody’s there yet, so the airfield is probably some significant distance away from the pub, with no way for a non-genius to tell exactly where. That doesn’t stop Mycroft from getting on the phone, from ordering a search of some sort, from ordering a watch on all international flights, from ordering this and that.

Sherlock is thinking, this time, fingers steepled, eyes flicking about the screen. He’s our best chance, with this newfound motivation. He and Mycroft are typically more even, with perhaps Mycroft having a slight edge. However, while Mycroft is scared again, worried, it is as though someone has lit a fire within Sherlock, and I know he won’t stop until he or Moriarty burns.

We wait a handful of minutes before they appear in the doorway of the aircraft. Allie is over Moran’s shoulder, once again stripped down to nothing but her shackles. Just another week and those would be off. Another two and she would be able to talk.

Moran drops her and raises the stairs, then disappears into the cockpit. Moriarty stands there, towering over Allie, and Sherlock must see something before the rest of us because he nearly shouts before she has even begun to move.

“No! Allie don’t!” As if she can hear him, as if it’s her cue, Allie pulls Moriarty down to the floor with her and dazes him with a blow to the head. I would feel happy, feel elated, if it weren't for the despair in Sherlock’s voice.

“Please Allie, don’t, there’s another way, we’ll get you, Allie…”

It isn’t until she starts at her wrists with a piece of bottle that I connect the dots.

She hasn’t taken Moriarty down to kill him. She knows she’d never beat Moran, and he’d still have her at his mercy, still be able to carry out Moriarty’s twisted plans. She’s taken Moriarty down to give herself time. She’s done the math and knows her best chance to free Sherlock to stop Moriarty is to take herself out of the equation.

The amount of relief I feel when Moran steps out of the cockpit disgusts me.

He’s at Allie’s side in a second. He knows what she’s doing, knows the consequences if she succeeds. He pulls a syringe from behind the counter, sticks it in her arm, and she goes limp. It’s his own shirt he uses to staunch the flow of blood, his own shirt he pads her wrists with. When it works well enough, I’m not sure if I should be glad or disappointed.

Allie didn’t hit anything critical. There’s not enough blood for that.

It’s so unlike her, to botch something like this, something so important. Even as Moran lowers the stairs, waves to where a doctor or other medical professional must be waiting, I know that she’ll probably survive. Unless they’re entirely incompetent, in which case Moriarty would never hire them.

I wonder if Allie’s heart was really in it, if she had been drugged leading up to it, if the glass wasn’t as sharp as she’d calculated.

How could she have messed this up?

When none other than Doctor Richmond arrives, it’s a whole new bag of mixed feelings. On one hand, it confirms my suspicions, proves me right. On the other hand, there’s no way we’ll find him now.

When he opens his bag and kneels beside Allie, he blocks the camera. There’s audio, of course, so we can all hear Moran’s question:

“Can you do this while we’re in the air?”

Richmond nods, and just like that Allie’s further away than she’s ever been before.

But she’s alive, so there’s still hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I've written a few chapters ahead, but nothing I'm too attached to if you have any suggestions. My point when I started that sentence was I'm just kinda pacing myself on posting for consistency reasons, but if anyone here prefers maximum content as soon as available to semi-steady smaller content parcels, then just speak up. This fic belongs to those who comment.
> 
> In that spirit, if you spot anything wrong or inconsistent, please please PLEASE let me know. Y'all are my beta readers and my common sense filters. If you WANT to beta read for me for realzies, let me know and we'll give it a try. I don't know why you WOULD, but ya know, if you really want to subject yourself to such torture so badly then be my guest. Until then, whoever is reading this, consider yourself my safety net.
> 
> Until next time!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...um...sorry.
> 
> Again, life happened and thus there was a gap in uploads. As I expect life to continue to happen, there may be future gaps in uploads.
> 
> But I had a minute so I figured I'd upload another chapter of The Melodramatic Adventures of Allie and Co.
> 
> I'm sorry if at any point, in this chapter or any other, anyone feels a bit...out of character. In some cases, there will be more information forthcoming that will explain the difference. In some cases, I just messed up.
> 
> Enjoy!

When I woke up, I wasn’t relieved. I was furious.

How could I have messed it up? How could I have failed?

I had risked everything and fallen short.

I was on the bed in the jet, and we were in the air. That much was unmistakable. When I saw Doctor Richmond sitting at the bar, I had to process for a moment, but it made sense. Of course that was something Moriarty would do. Of course he wasn’t safe.

Moriarty was next to me in the bed, where else? When I turned at last to him, he studied me with those dark black eyes. He looked a bit angry, a bit disappointed, and a bit...excited?

Like all things to do with Moriarty, this was not going to end well.

If only I’d succeeded.

Looking down to my wrists, I saw they were bandaged, perhaps with stitches underneath, but otherwise left alone.

So I hadn’t cut deep enough.

Good to know. If I ever got another chance, I wouldn’t make the same mistake.

Moriarty decided he wanted my attention.

“Oh, Allie. What a mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”

I didn’t want to give it to him.

“And you’ve put me in a bad position. What am I supposed to do? First you run away, then you try to escape in a...more permanent manner. I can’t just let you think that’s okay, can I?”

I checked for cameras as discretely as possible. I could see two without moving my head, both blinking.

This was about to get very, very bad for me.

“And the poor Doctor Richmond. I was going to let him move on with his life, take the money and leave. But you just proved that you can’t be trusted with yourself. Whatever would we have done without a doctor?”

I latched onto a camera, stared into its lens.

“Of course, there’s Sebby to think about, too. It can’t have been easy for him to save you like that. Quick thinking, but you cost him a shirt.”

I couldn’t mouth anything, Moriarty would have seen. He probably saw me anyways, but morse code was worth try.

“And of course, me. You hit me, Allie.”

It’s okay. I’m sorry.

“But I’m afraid punishment will have to wait. Sebby is sooo much better at that than I am. Only one in the world, I’m sure, but he’s flying.”

Forget me. Move on.

Moriarty grabbed my jaw and twisted my face towards his. More cameras there, over his shoulder, but no chance to send any more messages. If he didn’t see me before, he certainly would when my face was inches from his.

“Let’s think, Allie, how can you apologise to the lovely doctor who saved your life?”

So that's where he was going with this. I tried not to react when the pieces fell into place.

“You can’t speak, which is suuuuch a shame.”

An exaggerated look of realization crossed his face.

“I know...”

He hooked two fingers onto my collar, moved me even closer, his mouth against my ear.

“Why don’t we let him decide? That sounds fair, doesn’t it?”

I’d done what I could to escape, one way or another. There wasn’t really any way off the jet besides jumping to my death, and as tempting and effective as it sounded, there was no way I would make it to the door.

“Doesn't it?”

Like hell it was fair. From the moment I woke up, Doctor Richmond had made no effort to hide his roaming stares. I knew what was going to happen here, and so did Moriarty. It seemed so out of place for him, so not his style, that I began to wonder how much he knew about my past. Probably everything. It would explain this particular torture.

I wanted so desperately to run, to jump, to get away from the monster before me and the monster behind. I couldn’t do this, wouldn't do this. But his fingers flexed between my collar and skin, tightened the whole thing ever so slightly, enough to remind me just how little say I really had and how much worse this could all get. If it was happening one way or another, why would I take a likely whipping later along with this?

Still, as I nodded, I had to fight to keep my face blank.

“Good,” hissed Moriary, and he shoved me backwards with enough force to propel me off the bed and onto the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there is yet another short chapter.
> 
> I want you guys to know that I really appreciate the feedback I'm getting. I'm glad I could do something to make anyones day better (or just entertain you for a minute). So let me know if you have any questions, concerns, corrections, requests, etc.
> 
> (For example: does anyone want to take a look at Allie's mind palace? Does anyone think that she shouldn't have one?)
> 
> Thanks!


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